


Unchanged

by hamlet



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil, Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamlet/pseuds/hamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out, Wesker sometimes makes mistakes. And him being Wesker, it’s never just a tiny screw-up that goes by unnoticed; rather it’s a blunder of baffling magnitude that usually ends up with someone requiring a visit to the ICU. But really, it's all about Chris's jacket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unchanged

Turns out, Wesker sometimes makes mistakes. And him being Wesker, it’s never just a tiny screw-up that goes by unnoticed; rather it’s a blunder of baffling magnitude that usually ends up with someone requiring a visit to the ICU.

This time is no different. Apparently, Wesker miscalculated the dose of the virus when injecting one of his test subjects and everything went south. Long story short, instead of tracking down Wesker and putting an end to all of his bio-weapon research bullshit, Chris is huddled with him in a small shack somewhere in the middle of the African jungle because it’s dusk, and some nocturnal, mega-BOW that makes even _Wesker_ fret is on the prowl. Chris doesn’t dwell too much on the absurdity of the situation and just goes with it. Stranger things have happened.

It’s almost dark, the air cooling down outside, but the shack is still hot and stuffy, and so Chris shrugs off his jacket. Zebra print. He definitely caught Wesker eyeing the jacket (and the entire outfit, really) with disapproval earlier, but chose to ignore it.

He leans back against the far wall of the shack and checks his weapons, making sure that they’re loaded and ready, in case they need to defend themselves during the night. Wesker only has his combat knife strapped to his waist, but Chris figures he has other tricks up his sleeve. A big clue to that being that Wesker does not look the least bit concerned that there is nothing separating them from the night predators but three thin walls of straw. Of course. Smug bastard.

\---

  
They have nothing to talk about, so they just sit. The sun set a bit over an hour ago, and it’s dark. Chris doesn’t have to strain his eyes to make out Wesker’s silhouette in the darkness though, because his eyes are fucking _glowing_ red, and it’s creepy as hell. Wesker isn’t looking at Chris, he’s staring at nothing somewhere _past_ him, as if the other man isn’t even there. The silence is tense and heavy, and Chris can’t help but fidget uncomfortably ever so often.

Chris’s stomach growls and he suddenly recalls that there’s a chocolate bar in his jacket pocket. He'd swiped it from an abandoned grocery stand back in one of the villages. He fumbles around for his jacket in search of the candy, thankful that the chocolate miraculously hasn’t melted in the hot sun and, after a moment’s contemplation, breaks the treat in half, and hands Wesker a piece. Wesker gives him a long, pointed stare, but takes the chocolate anyway, nodding slightly in approval after sampling it. The silence no longer seems as heavy, and Chris finally relaxes a bit.

\---

  
There must have been something in the chocolate, Chris figures. That is the only possible justification he has for why Wesker is sprawled on top of Chris’s jacket on the floor of the shack, and he on top of Wesker, with his tongue down his former captain’s throat. It’s ludicrous, and they should probably stop, but Wesker is making those small noises as Chris fondles him, and his hands are trembling a bit, and Chris has _never_ seen him this disheveled, and it drives him wild. He stops caring about how wrong this is as soon as he shoves Wesker’s knees open just far enough to make room for himself between them, and takes Wesker cock into his mouth. The other man’s head lolls to the side, and he absently tugs at Chris’ hair.

\---

  
The combination of sex and danger leaves Chris too wound up to sleep. Wesker doesn’t seem bothered by either, and is lightly dozing on the floor, head nonchalantly pillowed on Chris’s tactical gear. Chris watches him from his spot against the wall, noting how the moonlight peeking into the shack casts soft shadows on the other man’s face.

It’s the middle of the night and the air has grown considerably chilly. Chris picks up his discarded jacket (it _reeks_ of sex), shakes off the dust, and lightly drapes it over Wesker’s shoulders, watching the other man relax, bit by bit, encased in warmth, falling into a deeper slumber.

\---

  
Chris must have fallen asleep at some point during the night, because next thing he knows, it’s light, and Wesker is handing his long-suffering zebra-print abomination of a jacket back to him, face closed off and unreadable.

“I hope you realize that this changes nothing between us, Chris,” he says.

Chris scoffs, “Obviously not,” then reaches for his jacket, and shrugs it on.


End file.
